


The Reminder

by songquake



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-28
Updated: 2013-01-28
Packaged: 2017-11-27 06:43:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/659046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/songquake/pseuds/songquake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tonks keeps breaking a rule of her relationship with Fleur. How can Fleur convince her to remember it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Reminder

**Author's Note:**

  * For [seatbeltdrivein](https://archiveofourown.org/users/seatbeltdrivein/gifts).



> Written for Seatbeltdrivein as part of the 2010 round of Porn In the Sun. 
> 
> **Warnings:** D/s, light bondage, forced masculinisation, spanking, femslash with toys, behaviour modification, non-copulative sexual activities. 
> 
> **A/N:** Um, this PWP sort of grew into quite the long, and plotty, D/s scene. Can a story this long actually stand as a PWP? Could the beginning of this Author's Note serve as the summary? Oh. I suppose I did write that already.
> 
> Many thanks to Luvscharlie for her support and for hosting this fantastic fest. And, er, giving really dirty minds like mine an outlet!  
> Ridiculous amounts of thanks are due to my darling beta, tania_sings, who read and beta'd and helped me refine Tonks's voice and keep her close to canon, despite the fact that I asked her to beta at a pretty inconvenient time! That is, I asked her to beta in the week or so after she gave birth.
> 
> Seatbeltdrivein, I didn't use any of the prompts you gave me. Instead, I took your list of kinks and let that inspire my writing here. I mean, with this pairing and a selection of kinks that includes "dirty talk, dom!fleur, spanking, … humiliation, begging, hair pulling, D/s in general… guys being guys, girls being whatever the hell they want…", well, the story practically wrote itself! And… I tried to stop her, but Fleur _insisted_ on referring to Tonks by various 'pet names'. Given what she does to Tonks, I was inclined to let her. Especially since she's married now, and (I imagine) would have to take her displeasure out on me in much less sexy ways. I hope you enjoy the story!

When I was a girl, my dad would take me to museums and galleries so I could 'learn to appreciate the Muggle magic of creating beautiful things out of non-magical materials.' Mostly, it bored me, since I had to keep quiet, and the pictures didn't _move_ , and I'd seen a telly at Dad's brother's house, so I knew that they _could_.

What caught my attention were the statues. They didn't move, either, but I didn't expect them to. After all, we'd learned better when Wizarding folk went around making golems. And what a mess _that_ was!

I still like statues, and I'm thinking of them now because I'm standing as still as one, waiting for my Mistress to return.

I love being the wax she moulds, the stone she carves, the person she creates. She takes my raw material and forms it into a lovely shape, adding adornments, sometimes dressing me up but more often having me strip starkers. 

And in these transformations, I learn about parts of myself I've denied for so long. I mean, I'm embarrassed, right? How could I tell sweet Remus that I want, I _need_ to be ordered around.

So now I'm standing in the centre of my flat's sitting room, back straight with hands clasped behind it, using every bit of Auror training and the confidence being a tomboy had given me to look dignified, even as I keep my eyes trained on the floor, awaiting instruction. I remind myself that this is not just _my_ flat anymore, this is _her_ flat, and right now, I am just another part of the flat that she owns. 

When she moved in, we only thought we would work together for the Order. We thought that we would get to 'just be girls' together, equals and comrades in the decorating and running of our household. This, even though Fleur clearly had a sense of style that I lacked. So I let her decorate, whilst I climbed up ladders and changed light fixtures and got dirty with paint.

In the midst of all this cleanup-without-privacy, she saw the sort of erotic magazines and toys I kept in my bedroom, and it was all over from there. 

It seems _forever_ that I've been in this position of 'submissive's attention'. But I still stand in the centre of the sitting room, waiting for her to remember me. I've pissed her off by coming home with my hair in bright green spikes and my tits bigger than usual. Her only reply to my greeting of "Wotcher, Fleur," was to narrow her eyes and say, "All of that gone. Clothes, too. Stand in the sitting room and wait for your punishment." 

So I wait, already wet. I love the matter-of-fact way she commands me. Even for something like this.

I never liked my natural hair, see? It's mousy-coloured, and it's too soft, and it won't stay in any style I try for it. I enjoy the freedom that being a Metamorphmagus gives me—the freedom to change my looks, to arrange my body to fit the style called for. Usually it's quirky; it's not like I much want to look conventionally pretty, like a flower or centrefold for _PlayWizard_ or any such nonsense. What I like is to make people look twice, and 'conventionally pretty' is too boring to do that. 

My 'natural' looks are boring, too. Common, every feature. And yes, I'd, er, _enhanced_ my boobs today to fill the blouse I was wearing when I met Remus for drinks after work. But Fleur does not want me to try to impress her, as though she were my new girlfriend, since she's damn clear that she's _not_. She's my roommate and my Mistress, and right now I can feel her presence at the doorway. She can see me in my nakedness, fringe falling over my eyes, my breasts once again smaller than teacups. My nose a little more bulbous than I'd made it for my date. 

Other than my mum and dad, she's the only person who knows what I look like with all my 'improvements' stripped away. She is the only one who cares enough, or at least has recognised enough facade, to insist. She prefers me pure, vulnerable. She likes me in my blank-slate form, capable of existing in these mundane looks, or transforming to her specifications into someone exotic. 

Not that she asks me to do that much. 

I am still staring at the carpet, but I can hear her soft footsteps approaching before I see her torso, legs, and feet before me. She is not dressed up like a storybook dominatrix; she wears loose black Capri trousers, espadrilles, and a fitted blue button-down blouse. 

"Newmphadora," she says. "Look at me." I raise my eyes, and she takes my chin in hand to tilt my face toward hers. She is the only one who can call me by my given name and not earn a sharp retort. I like the way she pronounces the Y, common to most of the Continental tongues, though not to English.

What _she_ likes is that it's my _nomme originale_. 

"Good evening, Mistress," I say, my voice low with respect as she looks me in the eye. Her silver-blond locks are tied in a loose chignon; this will be a low-energy session, then, at least for her. If I were in for a real beating, she would have tightly braided it so as not to let it get in the way and distract her. She maintains the eye contact as she strokes my jaw, traces her finger down the slope of my nose, and then steps back to scrutinise me some more. 

"I like it when you are obedient, like now. You know why I wanted it, no?"

"Yes, Mistress. I made myself into a decoration for the world, not for you, and not entirely for myself. I grew my breasts to fill my blouse a bit more, straightened my nose and turned it up, and wore my hair in green spikes. You prefer me to look like me." 

" _Oui_. Your blouse does not fit? Wear another one. Your body is perfect, just so." 

I stare at the floor again. I can't lie to my Mistress, so I don't say anything. She does not like my silence. 

"You think no?" she asks, grabbing my chin again as she frowns. "You think you need improvement in order to be attractive?" The way she pronounces words is mesmerising; I love how she gives equal emphasis to the syllables in 'improvement', and pronounces the last syllable 'mahn' as if it were just another French word we Brits have stolen in order to mispronounce. I have to concentrate on keeping myself with her, instead of just losing myself in the sound of her voice, lovely as it is.

She leans in to whisper in my ear, and I shiver. "You are beautiful. I love to see your _petits seins_ out like this, nipples brown and hard." She pinches my right nipple and twists. The heat in my crotch grows stronger, and I gasp. "Ah," she murmurs. "Look at you. So responsive. So good, _ma fille_."

"Thank you, Mistress," I whisper. 

"Go gather my bag for me, _petite fille_. I have something special planned for us tonight, and once we've started, we should not be having interruptions."

"Yes, Mistress," I say, and walk, shoulders back and head held high, walking in the proud way she likes. I know that my small breasts jut out a bit more, and my bum seems tighter, when I walk this way. It pleases my Mistress to see me carry myself as though my unchanged, nearly unfamiliar body is something to display, like statue enchanted to walk gracefully. 

As I enter her room, I see the rucksack she meant. This is where she keeps her 'toys' when they travel. Throughout her bureau drawers and closet there are things like brushes and oils, lotions and wonderful lube that makes my girl bits tingle. And also dildos, butt plugs, enema bags, various gags and bondage equipment, a riding crop, paddle, and single-tail whip. I wondered which of these have been packed for tonight, whether we're doing something new, or something she knows from experience that I really like. 

When I return to the sitting room, Fleur is perched on the settee. "Place the toys on the _petite table_ and the sack on the floor, if you will please." The way she mixes some French into her English and defaults to the syntax of her mother tongue is a huge turn-on to me; just as she prefers me as I am, she does not pretend to be a native speaker of English when we are together—she knows that I will understand her occasional lapses into French after spending my, er, _extended_ gap year in Wizarding Albertville (Muggles, especially the fit athletic ones, really _are_ amazing). Fleur also likes to emphasise the _difference_ between us. 

I lay out the toys for today's session. 

"Now, Newmphadora, what did you bring for us to play with today?"

"Er, your boar bristle hairbrush, a mirror, a straight razor, your dildo and harness, my collar, lube, a bowl, scissors, and", I pause, "your wand."

Fleur likes to remind me that everything can have an erotic purpose. As if I could forget after some of her more creative activities. This one has the makings of something more imaginative than we have done in ages, and, to be perfectly honest, I'm nervous. Very nervous. The supplies in her rucksack could outfit both a brothel and a barbershop. 

"Excellent, Newmphadora." She reaches for the collar. "Come."

She is sitting on the sofa, so I kneel before her, the cheap carpeting of our flat digging into my knees and into my ankles once I sit on them. I tilt my head up, presenting my neck, and feel the worn, cool leather encircle it. The collar is just tight enough to keep me aware of it, to remind me that I have offered my Mistress my body, my comfort, my life. Not that she would risk that last. She gives me the collar and punishes me for my own good, because she wants to help me love myself as she loves me. 

And she does love me, in that complicated way girls who have steady boys do. We are the world to one another, and yet there can be nothing permanent about this arrangement. 

"Tell me again, Newmphadora, what it is that displeased me. In details." 

Sometimes I wonder how it is that this very girl, four years _younger_ than me, can command so much obedience, and so much shame when I've disappointed her. 

"Mistress, I displeased you by coming home looking like someone who is not myself. I grew my breasts and arse, and turned my hair green before training it into spikes. I straightened out my nose and made my ears smaller. It displeases you to see me not looking like myself, especially when we are at home and safe. I disobeyed you and broke the promise I made to appear always in my 'natural body' when we are together. For all that, I deserve what punishment you deem suitable."

She slides two fingers under my collar and pulls me up to kiss me on the lips. I part mine, hoping that she will grow passionate and command my mouth as she commands my actions in the flat. But she doesn't. Instead she keeps the kiss nearly chaste, follows it with a kiss to the forehead, and uses the fingers under the collar and her other hand on my shoulder to almost-gently force me back to my knees. 

Back on the floor, I look up at her for approval. 

"So you know what you did that was wrong, and you did it anyway. We must make it that you do not become so forgetful. We have rules here, and they are for your good as well as my pleasure."

"Yes, Mistress," I say, my face burning. It's not that I fear my punishment, mostly; it's that I feel about four inches tall, embarrassed that I cannot even remember to follow such a simple rule as wearing my own face and boobs in the flat. I blink back tears. 

She notices. "Oh, _ma petite_ , I know you are very sorry. I see you with your hot eyes. But this is not enough, is it? You always feel _sorry_ , but you do not remember. So we must give you a reminder." She pauses, and says, "Hand me the brush."

I hand her the brush, and wait for my next instruction. 

"Kiss it," she says, so I do. 

She runs a hand through my hair, then uses it to pull me upward. "Turn around and let me see your bottom," she says. So I do. 

"Your bottom is looking so clean, so white, no markings on it," she says. "So lovely and pure. Not like your behaviour." 

I frown, annoyed by the continued needling about my transgression, not to mention the emphasis on purity. But at least I now know what form my punishment is to take. 

"Lie on my lap, Newmphadora; give me your bottom. You need quite the spanking, _petite fille_." 

So I do. I place myself over her lap so her hand will have a good shot at my bum, make sure my feet are pretty solid on the floor, and grab hold of the legs of the chair for balance. 

Yes, I've been here before. And, clumsy as I am, I want to take the necessary precautions so that I don't tumble when she starts the beating. Though even hanging on does not guarantee that; my legs seem to have minds of their own. 

" _Bonne fille_ ," she murmurs, and I brace myself for the first whack, but it doesn't come. Instead, I feel something —the brush—scratching at my bum as if it is, well, something that gets scratched. She moves the bristles in large arcs on my arsecheeks, occasionally switching to smaller circles that, I'm sure, are scratching grids of swirling patterns on my bottom. This is my warm-up. I sigh when she turns the brush over and allows my oversensitive skin to feel the cool wood of it. I am already wet and fidgety from the stimulation on my bottom.

I gasp and jerk when she slides the handle through my crack. She does not use it to fuck me, though; rather, she merely slides it back up my spine before taking the brush away. And I know what's coming next.

"Fifty hits, I think," Fleur says, almost to herself. I shudder a bit at the idea of that many strikes against my already-warm bottom. 

She does not require me to count the swats, this time. As the blows rain fast and hard on my arse, though, I count in my head—I need something to focus on, something to keep me grounded, keep me from falling apart completely. I keep my mouth shut and my brain counting. Fifty isn't hard to count to, and yet I stumble a few times; the discipline is getting me even more wet and randy, and I am fighting the urge to hump my Mistress' leg. So I focus on counting. Around the time I reach thirty, Fleur stops. 

"Breathe, _fille_ ," she says. "Are you not breathing? I hear nothing from you while you are taking your spanking." 

She is caressing my bottom in a deceptively soothing manner. I take a deep, shuddering breath. 

"I am trying to be strong for you, Mistress; I am trying not to cry."

"Stop that. I do not like it. I want to hear your pain. Cry for me; I will keep spanking you until I hear it." 

Fuck. This may take awhile, since I've now caught my breath and been brought back from the brink of breaking. 

She wants to break me. To recreate who I try to be, to allow the Nymphadora Tonks who is her own unapologetic self, in looks as well as in action, to push forth. And she will force me to 'catharsis' in order to make it so. 

She begins smacking me— _hard_ —with the back of the brush again, but alternates: every ten whacks she turns the brush over and gives me five spanks with the bristle-side. For sure, this is drawing blood, catching my skin like it does and pulling it up as the bristles are raised again from my bottom. I begin to moan at about thirty-five, but cry out in distress at forty-two. And still she paddles me, until I am sobbing, tears streaking my face.

"Mistress, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" I cry aloud. "Please stop! I've learned my lesson, I won't displease you anymore, I _promise_." 

She stops, finally, and gathers me in her arms, sitting on her lap now. She leans in to speak in my ear. "Are you certain, Newmphadora? Will this promising do? You have made such promises to me before."

"I know, Mistress, but I'll do better this time! I'll... carry a Remembrall! Or make a tincture of _Mimbulus Mimbletonia_ to keep my memory sharp!" I bury my snotty face in her blouse, knowing that I could be ruining it, but also knowing that she likely expected me to cry on her shoulder and chose her outfit appropriately. 

She strokes my hair, runs her hand up and down my bare back. I am vulnerable as a child here, naked in my Mistress' lap while she, in simple yet classy clothes, holds and soothes me like a parent with a heartbroken four-year-old. 

Finally, as I settle and nearly start to doze, she speaks. "Newmphadora, you have had your punishment. I am proud of you, that you are permitting to be trained and corrected in this way, and that you did not protest. 

"However, we both know that unless we have a prevention, you will break these rules again, and I cannot have such a bad rule-breaker in my house. So we are not finished. But this prevention will not hurt you, only your pride." 

I nod, sniffling. I know what she says is true.

"Stand," she instructs me, and leads me to sit on what we tell guests is our 'ottoman'. It's a padded bench we keep in the living room for these sessions of discipline and sex; the bench is low enough to bend over when I'm on my knees, and the perfect height for resting one's feet when one is seated on the sofa. Its cushion is covered in crushed blue velveteen, not terribly expensive or classy, but it suits its purposes. 

Hands on my shoulders, she pushes me to sit at the edge of the bench. "Close your eyes, _ma fille_ ," she says softly. I close my eyes, and listen for several moments as she undresses (I think), slips on her cock (I think), and selects other toys (I _know_ ). 

She sits behind me, straddling the bench, and moves close, so close that she has to lift my buttocks off the cushion in order to slide her slim, curved cock underneath them. The tip of it teases me, barely parting my rear labia. She thrusts a little, experimentally, before wrapping her arms round me in a tight hug. I feel her own breasts against my back, her hardened nips brushing me with a different texture than the softer part of her curves. She kisses my ear, holding me steady as I squirm. 

"Newmphadora," she murmurs. "Say what it is these sessions do, and why you want them." 

I breathe deeply, in and out, trying to let some thoughts find their way through the fog of sensation and surrender. It's particularly hard for me to concentrate on mental tasks when my eyes are closed and she is touching me. But Fleur asks these questions when she is about to introduce a new activity, so that I can know why I might consent—or not. 

"We do this because I like to have a space where someone takes care of me," I say in a small voice, "and because you care enough to do it."

"Yes?" she encourages.

"You think that I change my appearance because I don't think I can live up to others' expectations by myself, and that I put on different masks so that I can act out the role of the mask. And that I don't have much confidence in myself otherwise."

"Anything more?" she asks, sounding slightly tighter.

"And I... I agree, Mistress. I change what I look like so I can fool other people, and fool myself into believing I am sexy and strong and clever and fun." I take another shaky breath, my eyes burning, _hoping_ for tears. "And... I don't remember who I am, really, underneath all that make-believe."

"Is this still true, Newmphadora?" Her voice is terribly gentle. 

"A bit," I confess. "I'm starting to understand that you think I'm sexy without any changes, and that all these things I think I've fooled people into believing about me are actually parts of me. But it's hard to go outside and face the world as myself when nobody else has ever _seen_ me. Even Remus, who knows me better than anyone. Er, but you, Mistress."

"And why do we have the rule about looking like you when in the flat?"

"So I can think of my home as a place to practise being myself. And so you can see me, and so I can try to trust you to care for me without my masks." 

"You _speak_ the correct answer. Do you feel it here?" She taps my temple. "Or here?" She taps my chest. 

My tears flow now, seeping through my eyelashes. "Only here, Mistress," I say, tapping my temple as she did. "I know all this, but I don't feel it or believe it yet." 

She kisses the salt from the side of my face, and strokes my chest where her hand rests, sliding it round to cup my left breast and roll the nipple between three fingers. My neck arches back, dropping my head onto her shoulder; the arm round my waist pulls me even closer to her, until I'm nearly in her lap. 

"Open your eyes and tell me," she says. "Do you think that you can keep a promise not to dress your physique up when you are in the flat?" She raises a hand to my chin, gripping it and turning my head so that I have to maintain eye-contact. She is an excellent interrogator; we could use her on the Corps. I give in, perhaps too easily, but she wants honesty, and I can't win by hiding. Even if I'd wanted to.

"No," I answer, heartbroken at my weakness. 

"I can give you a reminder. Something that will keep you from coming in here looking as you did this afternoon. It will also most probably remind you to put the rest of you back in place. Will you accept this?"

"Is it a spell?" I ask, even though Fleur had requested a Yes or No answer. Her long fingernails pinch and dig into my nipple as punishment for my mistrust and I scream, albeit softly. 

"No," she says. "It is not a spell."

Since I now know she will not be tampering with my mind—that's one of my hard limits, but not one we've discussed—I say to her, "Thank you, Mistress. I will accept whatever method you have to make me keep my promise to you."

The fingernails dig in again, this time on the other side. "Not just to _me_ ," she says sharply. "Also to yourself, Newmphadora!" 

I don't scream this time, but my throat chokes up again, my chest constricts. "I'm sorry, Mistress. I'm sorry that I forgot to think of my own desires. I just wanted—"

"You 'just wanted to please' me," she says, coldly repeating the phrase I have said to her several times when I have let her down regarding this rule. "The whole _point_ , Newmphadora, the whole _point_ is for you to learn to care about yourself!"

I hiccup, and she goes back to stroking my arms, my belly, one hand starting to dip into my curls. "What do you want, _petite fille_?" she asks. 

"I want to know who I am! And— and— I want you to touch me, to take my clit and my cunt!" 

"Good girl," she says, sitting both of us up a little straighter, a little taller. "Spread your legs for me." 

I spread my legs. She brings her right hand down to rub at my clit, but it's a bit of a stretch, and I know she won't be able to fuck my hole easily. Even so, I groan and thrust up, trying to increase the contact.

"Ah-ah," she chides. "You must keep your bottom on the bench, yes? Or I do not touch you. I will just give you your reminder." 

I nod, and take a deep breath, lowering myself back down so that I'm sitting on her cock again. I barely hear the command of " _Incarcerous_ ", though I am certainly not shocked when I find my calves bound to the legs of the bench, my thighs bound to the seat. It's been done before. 

I tug on the rope she's conjured, blue to match the bench. I'm not going to be able to go anywhere.

"Thank you for helping me, Mistress," I say earnestly. "I wish I could be more still for you."

"Someday you will," she murmurs, lifting my collar so she can run her tongue tenderly under it and kiss my neck tenderly. 

Then she takes my collar _off_. 

"Mistress?" I ask, confused. 

"No worry, Newmphadora; I am not letting you away. But this collar will be in the way when I am giving you your reminder. I will put it on you after."

I hum my consent to her. 

"Hmm. Now, I was rubbing at your little clitoris, was I not?"

"Yes, Mistress," I whimper hopefully. She does not let me down, rubbing the tip of her index finger over the hood, pushing it back just a little. 

"I can reach when I am holding you this way, but if I am not holding you, I am a bit too far." She leans back in demonstration. "And I will need to be not so close while I am making the reminder for you."

I'm sure the disappointment in my voice is audible as I respond with an "Oh." 

"So we must make the choice," she muses. "I cannot stroke you and make the reminder at the same time. Which do you want me to do, my Newmphadora?"

" _Both_!" I say, my voice stronger than it usually is during scene. I feel her breasts jiggling against my back as she chuckles in my ear. "I want both, _please_ , Mistress!"

She scoots her body away, leaving my back cold as my arse bumps against the ottoman, and I feel the air her leg displaces as she swings it over the bench. She paces in front of me, and I feel my mouth dry in my desire for her. Her hair is still in that chignon, but she now wears nothing but three-inch pumps, the better to intimidate me, and her "realistic" dildo, the one that pulses inside of me when she fucks me or has me suck her off. That also transfers the sensations of my cunt, arsehole, or mouth round her cock to her own clit. 

She is, at once, everything I desire and everything I fear: strong, beautiful, confident, and aggressively feminine.

Fleur regards me from her height above, taps her lower lip, and then squats in front of me, her magic cock bouncing up and down in the harness. 

"You", she says, "are greedy. You want both to have your orgasm and to receive your reminder, all at the same time. And my arms are not long enough to do both. Do you not see the problem?"

I gulp. "I do."

"Now, even though you are a greedy girl, I am very proud of you for telling me what you want, not what you think I want you to want. This is good: it is progress that you can know and say what you want. So, you deserve a reward, no?"

"Oh, _thank_ you, Mistress." I preen as much as I can in the state I'm in: bound to a bench with my nipples hardened from her abuse of them, my arse so sore that even the velveteen feels abrasive. She simply stares at me.

"But," she says after a moment of regard, "you must solve that problem for me. How am I to be able to move further back and still give you a nice orgasm?"

The good thing about Fleur is that she never asks a question completely rhetorically; there is always an answer, and usually she expects a specific one. So I think. 

"You could alternate—work sometimes on the reward and sometimes on my chuff?" 

She shakes her head. "I do not want to stop what I am doing when it is started. Try again." 

I try to squirm my bottom round a bit for sensation while I think. This is mostly unsuccessful, and also smears some of my juices all over the bench. Augh. What a mess. 

_Think_ , I remind myself. _Nothing will happen until I tell her what it will be._

Then I realise what she wants, and feel the blood rush to my cheekbones. _Oh. But how could she know about that?_

"I'm waiting, Newmphadora," Fleur says, her voice still close to my face, her cock still bobbing temptingly. Her eyes still focus on mine, though I have let my eyes close in reverie. How could I have missed it? She called my clit "little," she has pushed her cock right in my face... She is asking questions about how to reach my clitoris... Yes, I know what she wants me to say. But do I want to do it?

_Yes_ , my lust replies. _It feels so_ good _, Tonks. You know this. Let her wank you. Just let her. She wants to do it._

I open my eyes and look into hers. "I could grow my clitoris so that it's long enough for you to reach, like a little cock," I whisper, embarrassed that I can make the suggestion. 

She kisses me lightly on the lips as a reward for answering honestly, despite my chagrin. "You could, could you not?" She pauses, watching the red flood from my cheeks to burn my ears and warm my chest. She grabs a nipple and rolls it again, keeping her nails to herself this time. "Have you ever made a little cock, my Newmphadora?"

Of _course_ I have, and I feel fairly certain she knows this. It's fairly a rite of passage for the adolescent Metamorphmagus to experiment, trying on the other gender's 'equipment' along with new hair and eye colours. Most of us at least wank, and the majority of us piss as well. 

"Yes, Mistress, I have, when I was thirteen," I confess. 

"Is this the only time you have done it?"

"No. I did it often, to masturbate." My eyes have lowered to her cock again—it hangs between my face and the floor—and my face is as red as it's ever been. Though most Metamorphmagi have tried it, nobody has ever mentioned making a habit of it to me. 

And it's not that I was trying to be a _bloke_ ; I simply wanted more to pull on as I pinched and pulled on my tits, and to see the evidence of my arousal and orgasm the way men got to. Or so I'd heard. 

"You still do, no?"

I'm blindsided by her insight, and find myself shocked, speechless, breath caught in my throat. Unable to do more, I nod, and then rasp out a whispery "Yes."

To be honest, my adolescent attempts at turning my clit and labia into a cock and balls were hampered by the fact that I'd never encountered a willy before. And by the time I was encountering naked men, I'd decided that what I had made my body into was _exactly_ what I wanted, and needed no improvement. Still, it feels like an obscenity on my body, a secret that is so shameful none should know of it. Even if it was wonderful, sharing it was not worth the risk of losing my lovers or—Merlin forbid—having my secret broadcast to my Housemates, my co-workers, my family and friends. Or, should the _Daily Prophet_ find out, the world. 

But I was not going to tell all that to Fleur; not now, when we were in the middle of a scene that might lead to her seeing the results... If she has no expectations about what I think of as my Tonkscock, she can't be disappointed. 

I've had enough of disappointed lovers. 

"So you know that doing this brings you pleasure, Newmphadora?" Fleur asks, even as I contemplate the history of my genital experimentation. She dips her fingers into my cunt as she continues to stare into my eyes, and _tugs_ on my clit. She tugs on it, and then swirls her index finger round the tip, pushing back the hood as if she were giving a bloke a hand job. 

My eyes and mouth gape, excited and shocked at her action. I hear a very high-pitched whine, and realise that it's me, my voice climbing several octaves higher than its typical authoritative alto. "Oh, _yes_ , Mistress, just like _that_ , Mistress... Please!" 

I'm babbling and I don't care. Masturbation is all well and good, but it's more fun when someone else is fingering your cunt. Or at least I think it is. 

"Tell me, Newmphadora," Fleur continues, "what else would you do to give yourself pleasure when you made your clitoris bigger?" 

She tugs again, _hard_ , and twists my clit like it is just another nipple for her to torture. Half of me wishes she would put a clamp on my clit, to torture it that much more. To overwhelm me utterly. 

"I— I—" I gasp, and stop to catch my breath. "I sometimes pull on my nipples with the hand that was not playing with my cock. And I sometimes put a finger up my arse."

"Your cock," she says, looking and sounding thoughtful. "Why did you want a cock?" 

I shrug my shoulders, trying unsuccessfully to hump her fingers as well. She withdraws them, and I groan in disappointment.

"I just wanted to see what having one was like, and so I tried it once... It was fun." I take another deep breath, afraid that I am losing my faculty of speech. "I didn't, I _don't_ always grow a willy when I want to have one off; mostly I'm more than happy with my original set. But variety is the spice of life, and all that...?" I trail off, unsure of what her reaction will be. 

She kisses me, harder, even, than she last tugged at my clit. I wrap my arms round her waist as she sits in my lap, combing her fingers through my hair. Both of us are humping a bit, even though this is not a position very conducive to genital pleasure. 

When she pulls back, she speaks again, low into my ear. "Did you do this for other lovers?" 

"No, Mistress! Most dykes around here aren't so much into cock, y'see?" It seems elementary to me, but Fleur looks put out. Probably since, as _une femme bisexuelle_ , she wouldn't mind if I grew a cock every so often. 

Or maybe she would. I can never tell what it is she thinks of my Metamorphmagus ability in itself. 

"Did you want to share it with them?" 

I think for a moment. I'd assumed that my past girlfriends wouldn't like it, so I hadn't wanted to show them. But if they had...? 

"I don't know, Mistress," I finally answer. "I never thought about it, because I thought there was no point."

Fleur kisses me sweetly. "You know what that is meaning?" she asks. Then her voice grows hard. "It is that you wanted to, but you were afraid." 

She's right, of course, and I tell her so, feeling even more exposed than usual, there with my legs spread on the bench, in my 'natural' body, naked in both body and soul underneath my roommate, my Mistress. It is the sort of situation that my work has trained me to avoid most of all, but I need it. I need her to own me, to mentor me, to plunder what is hidden. And I need to submit, which I'm hardly known to do outside this flat. 

Fleur speaks again. "And so you very much need a reminder that you must be who you are, and make yourself into whom _you_ want to be when you are at home."

"Mistress?" I ask. 

She sighs. "You must not think, Newmphadora, that I reject you for using your special talent. It is very...attractive in some ways. But I do not like to see you use it for everybody's pleasure but your own." 

I stare up at her, eyes wide, and she grabs my face and kisses me again, thrusting her tongue into my mouth as if _it_ were a cock itself. 

When we finish snogging, both of us are breathless. Fleur stands, stepping back to look at me again. 

"Now, Newmphadora, while I am creating your reminder, I do not want to you move your hands from the bench. I do not want you to touch yourself. Can you promise me that, or must I tie your arms?"

"I need you to tie me, Mistress," I confess again. I know that I am Gryffindorishly impulsive, and that when I become frustrated I, er, tend to bollocks things up. She knows this as well, and had even raised her wand before she had finished asking. 

She casts a second _Incarcerous_ , binding each wrist to the opposite elbow and using her hands to tuck my arms beneath my breasts. 

"Thank you, Mistress. Thank you for saving me from myself." 

"Ah-ah! You are saving your own self, Newmphadora, by requesting what you need and desire." And her eyes are full of pride and _want_. 

"I will move behind you now, Newmphadora. I want you again to make your eyes closed, and concentrate on growing your clitoris into a nice cock for yourself."

I close my eyes. I sink further into my body than I already am. There is something about the process of morphing magic that requires physical sensitivity and concentration beyond anything I have ever heard described. I have read that it is somewhat like the concentration needed in the last moments of labouring with child, but this is not painful, or forceful. It's just intense. 

I feel blood flowing into my clitoris, which is already swollen because of the interactions with my Mistress. Hermione once mentioned dogs drooling when they heard a bell. I thought that was rather awful, but I get randy the same way at Fleur's commands. So I send yet more blood to my clit, and to the labia around it, and then I must stretch the skin... and how about redirecting some nerves from my belly? Ah, yes. There's a good one.

I make sure that the hood of my enormous clit is tight around it, only loose around the tip. I send sinew in to add support for my new girth. 

I think this is the biggest, and most elaborate, Tonkscock I have ever grown. 

I must have exhaled deeply when I finished, because I feel Fleur suddenly still behind me. "Is it finished, your great clitoris?" she asks, with a whole lot more than just a hint of interest in her voice. 

I try to nod my head in response, but she pulls my hair sharply. "Be _still_ , Newmphadora. Do you not understand anything about what it means to be bound at arms and legs? Must I spend my Galleons on a posture collar as well?"

I take another deep breath to steady myself and compose my answer. And try to let parts of my body other than my Tonkscock reawaken. 

"No, Mistress. I am sorry that I did not understand the extent of your directions, and that I tried to answer without speaking properly." That is the other transgression here: Fleur may be lax about it most of the time, but when she addresses me with a question, she expects an oral answer, and to be addressed with respect. 'Yes, Mistress,' would have been the proper response. But since I did not answer in a formal way, now I must answer in full. 

"And yes, Mistress, I have finished making my clit big enough for you to reach."

One hand trails down my shoulder, and further down along my breast, waist, and hip. There is something in her fingers, something soft that tickles, and I am glad that my thighs are firmly tied and that I have just been reminded not to move, because the urge to squirm or let my small belly shake in laughter is almost overpowering. But I can be a good girl for Fleur, at least in this. I have long trained myself to hold absolutely still for lengthy minutes at a time, not even addressing a tickle at my nose. Right. I can definitely keep still right now. 

My eyes are still closed, so it's with my enhanced sense of touch that I feel that soft, tickling thing fall onto and then off of my thigh. Fleur brushes the thigh with her fingers, then rubs it, and _oh,_ that feels good. I flex my thigh unconsciously, trying to encourage the contact. She moves her hand up to my less-sensitive tummy, and rubs that, too, before reaching down, combing my pubic hair, and taking gentle hold of my Tonkscock. 

She slowly closes her fist as she leans back to put something on the bench. The squeeze is so unsurprising, so gradual, that all I can do is breathe deeply, and enjoy the pressure.

...Until it squeezes just a little too hard and her fingernails sink deep into my nipple again. I wail and thrash a bit, but my Tonkscock is throbbing even harder, and Fleur starts dips two fingers into my cunt and swirls them a bit, gathering my juices before stroking my Tonkscock up and down. She lets go of my breast to yank at the hair behind my ear and twist my neck so it's easy to bite that place where it meets my shoulder, _hard_...

And then she lets go, and all I know is that my body is alive and tingling and eager as fuck, and my nerve endings are completely confused. 

My mouth quickly catches on to what has happened and howls, "Noooooooo!" I am, of course, unsurprised when I feel the sting of her slap on my cheek. I'm too far gone; it doesn't stop me. "Mistress, no! Please don't stop! Please!"

She slaps me again, and I still, breathing harshly but finally shutting up. 

"You may have a nice orgasm as a reward once you've received your reminder, Newmphadora," Fleur says sternly. "If you cannot be able to wait, I may not let you come at all."

I am appropriately cowed by this threat. "Yes, Mistress. I'll be still and quiet while you make the reminder." I remember that she still hasn't told me what she's doing, and that I am letting her, and all her implements of destruction, have access to me while I am tied up and am voluntarily blinding myself. So I break my word almost immediately. "Mistress, may I ask something?" 

She is merciful, and does not reprimand me for this. "Yes, Newmphadora. What is this question?"

"What is the reminder you are making?"

"It is a surprise," Fleur answers definitively. That line of inquiry is done. 

I say, "Yes, Mistress," and start to sink down, letting myself become all-sensation, all-obedience. Malleable. I go under, become my most submissive self, still and silent until her word, a vessel into which she can pour instruction, raw material from which she can sculpt her ideal. I let myself drop into this self, and a simple happiness fills me, a satisfaction that I know I can please Fleur by doing just this. 

I feel her gather my hair, grown long from my inattention to its natural state, into a tight ponytail and braid it tightly. She takes hold of the plait and pulls it to pull my head back as far as it can go. She leans over me to kiss me and thrust her tongue into my mouth, owning it, using it to pleasure her own mouth. I'm lost and loving, and feel joy, true joy, for the first time in _ages_. This is a joy that I only feel when the two of us play like this, the joy of being able to trust and submit, and know that while my Mistress is taking her pleasure from my body, she is also going to wring impossible pleasure from it. 

Keeping one hand wrapped in my braid, she continues to thrust into my mouth as she reaches down and starts pulling my Tonkscock in a steady motion, circling her thumb over the very edge, letting her fingernail slip beneath the hood before she strokes up. She does this for several moments, and I am in heaven; I know nothing but these points of contact: Tonkscock, mouth, and scalp. 

When she releases my mouth, she keeps wanking me, and I feel her reaching again for something on the bench. As she concentrates particularly on the engorged head of my clit, I hear the sound of metal against metal, and then the sound of something fibrous being severed... And I realise that the centre of my scalp feels lighter, and cold. 

The braid is gone. This must be the reminder. I start to shake, my thighs and calves tensing so much that they tremble, my Tonkscock pulsing, trying to receive even more contact. I have submitted and now I want to come. 

" _Ma fille, une si bonne fille,_ she murmurs, rare words of praise in her mother tongue. " _Vous avez fait bien, mais ce n'est pas de finition._ "

Somewhere in my fog of bliss, the feelings in my genitals still overwhelming me, I understand her. We aren't done yet. I don't care, I don't care at all. So I tell her so.

"Please, Mistress, do whatever you want. I want to please you, I want you to own and command me, my cunt, my Tonkscock, own me, take me, take whatever you want," I babble. My heart is so open right now. I want it to be able to enfold whatever expectations she has, whatever pain or pleasure she wants to give me, into my very being. I do not want to separate from this moment, or from her. Nothing exists but the two of us, on this bench. 

Fleur's hands leave my hair and my Tonkscock as she comes before me, taking my face in her hands to kiss my lips, my cheeks, my head, my nose. "You need a break?" She asks, and I shake my head. But she says, "Open your mouth, _fille_ ," and casts _Aguamenti_ into it. I swallow, lick my lips, and open my mouth for more. I thought I was _fine_ , thank-you-very-much, but my Mistress knows my needs even better, and uses my immobility to make me take care of myself. 

I don't even feel embarrassed as the water dribbles down my chin and down my chest, pooling in my navel. 

She kisses my nose again and I open my eyes to see her looking at me with affection and pride. 

"You will eat fruit later," she says, and I imagine her feeding me, still bound as her willing submissive. I shiver, knowing we are far from finished with this session, and I wonder how long Fleur has been planning this, but she's moving behind me again, and she speaks. 

"You must close your eyes, _fille_ ," is what she says, and so I do, letting myself sink back to the blissful place I'd occupied the moment before the drink. 

Fleur is running fingers through what is left of my hair, straightening what must be invisible tangles by touch, splaying her fingers on my neck occasionally as she works through my hair. She pulls a bit behind my ear up, and in anticipation I make my head follow. I feel her hot breath by my ear and then on my neck, then her wet lips and tongue, and finally the pain of the bite I've been craving. I offer even more of my neck, and she chuckles. 

"You would like that I were a vampire, no?" she asks, but I don't answer. I don't have to. 

She knows I would like her no matter what she was. If she were not part-Veela, but all-human, or vampire, or werewolf; as long as she can command and control me, I will want her. 

She snips a bit of hair off, and uses it to tickle my breasts again, and I realise that this is what had stroked me earlier as she repeats the pattern on the other side of my body. It is now her left hand working its way down to my Tonkscock (which is sore from drying out) as her wand hand uses shears to clip my hair yet more. 

Again, she dips her fingers in to my cunt, this time pressing two fingers as far in as she can reach from her position, which is not very far. But she scoops a lot of my natural lube from there and spreads it all over my labia before spreading it on my Tonkscock. She does this a second time, and I try to buck in my relief and regained sensitivity. 

I moan and groan inarticulately as she manipulates my clitoral hood the way I sometimes play with Remus' foreskin, and then uses that hand, surprising in its precision, to stroke up and down my shaft steadily. 

The _snip, snip_ at my head continues, almost an ostinato to my moans and the slippery sound of hand on lubricated clit. 

I feel her finally lean back to discard the shears, and then her dominant hand joins the other to spread my lips and allow the hand that has been stroking my Tonkscock to pinch the base of it, _hard_. Those pinching fingers then stay there as she uses her wand hand to wank me more quickly, more tightly. She finally dips down, puts a little more lube on her thumb, and uses that thumb to keep the pressure on the tip of my clit, moving in circles as she continues the now-painful massage of my Tonkscock. All I am, all my blood, all my nerves, all my _spirit_ is in my Tonkscock at the minute, and I don't know whether to beg her to stop or beg her never to let go, so I just scream and scream as I come, thrashing as much as I can, my back and head crashing into my Mistress over and over and over. 

When I stop bucking, stop screaming, and start just whimpering, she takes her hands from my Tonkscock and grabs the lube. I feel her squeeze some of the cool gel onto my shaft, and then use her warm hand to spread it round, both soothing the over-stimulated organ and reminding it that it has a lot to live for. I come, quietly, a second time as she rubs the blessed Muggle concoction over the top of my clit and through my labia. 

I lean back against her cool breasts, and Fleur embraces me, holds me in comfort for a minute. But, this not being the end of our scene, she is soon incanting, conjuring something that smells of lime, cucumber and mint on my breasts. She uses this— whatever it is —to explore my tits, each pinch sliding away, her fingers not able to grasp my flesh for long. And yet the pressure is exhilarating, and she uses her fingertips to circle my rather sore nipples until they are sore not from abuse but from straining. 

I am panting like a very happy dog, and my cunt is as wet as it's ever been. Merlin, I hope she lets me come again.

I feel the same cool something, smell the same cool something, flowing onto my scalp, and Fleur's hands move from my tits ( _no, I want more!_ ) to my head. She massages the conjured potion into my stubble, and then begins to rub at my head, more briskly than she moved round my breasts. 

When I feel her lean back again, I hold my breath. 

"You must be very, _very_ still, _petit fille_ ," she says, and I comply. I feel something cool, metallic, and sharp at the nape of my neck. The straight razor. 

A straight razor is a scary tool; it can be used for shaving, as I am pretty sure Fleur plans now. But it can also be used for carving, for marking, for _claiming_ a sub or a slave. But it would break Remus' heart if Fleur marked her claim on my body, and I think, I hope, I _trust_ she knows that. 

Yet, I don't know that I would stop her from doing it if she wanted to. 

The feeling of the straight razor scraping upwards on my skull is even hotter than the feeling of Fleur massaging shaving potion into my breasts. It has the hint of danger, and the hint of extreme domination, that turns me on more than anything else, and _Merlin_ , I hope she fucks me some more, and lets me serve her sexual needs, when this is done. 

I do not offer; she has warned me to be very still, and I know that speech would cause as much danger, the razor being in her hand and such. 

Instead, I concentrate on the sensation of the foam and razor sliding up my head, the sound of the razor knocking against Fleur's bowl, the occasional breath against my very naked skin. She is much more careful than I'd have been, taking her chosen responsibility seriously. I hiss when she nicks a spot behind my ear, and she bends down to lick the blood off, kiss it, clean and heal it with her wand. That entire side of my head tingles from her attention. 

At last, all I feel is cool air on my head, and Fleur's warm kisses here and there as she admires her work. 

"Now, Newmphadora, we have your reminder. Since a Metamorphmagus can only work with the living or dead cells she has, you will not be able to make your hair different until it comes back. And we also will hang your plait in the entry for after your hair grows." 

She grabs my chin to turn my head; she can no longer pull my hair to get my attention or move  
me round. 

"Would you like your collar, _ma petite fille?_?" 

I look almost blindly at her, blinking as the light assaults my eyes. "I would, Mistress," I say, trying to process what we have done. 

Fleur sits behind me again, and buckles the collar round my neck, securing me as her pet, her little girl. "I shall be your masterpiece, soon, Mistress," I say. I sound like a kid, I think. 

She reaches one hand to pinch my nipple hard and the other down to start tugging at my Tonkscock again. " _Ma petite Nymphadora_ , you are your own masterpiece. We must continue to find you, underneath the heavy cloaks you wear as skins." I moan as she rolls the nipple between her thumb and forefinger, and pinches the head of my clit, causing the pleasurable pain I've been craving.

"You grew your clitoris into a large cock not because I like it, but because you do. You made the decision to submit to me and trust me, yes, but even though you did not know what I would be making for your reminder, even when I had given you many hints, you did not want to back away, and so you did not. You are learning to be pleasing to yourself, and that is pleasing to me, yes. But you are making yourself into your own masterpiece."

I nod and lean back into her as she leisurely wanks me, sometimes massaging or yanking my Tonkscock, sometimes tracing my lips, sometimes fully straddling me, her cock and tits pressed into my back so that her calves can grab at my knees and her fingers can reach into my hole and fuck it with two fingers. As I toss my bald head onto her shoulder, she lets go of my breast to wank my clit as she finger-fucks me harder. 

My chest heats up, my thighs tense, and I feel my back knot up as if getting ready to thrust. "Mistress, I want to come!" I cry, and, at her affirmative hum in my ear, I let my thighs contract, my vagina constrict, and I feel the undulation of my orgasm radiating from my womb through my clit and tits and back, the pleasure coursing down my legs. I know I've squirted round my Mistress' fingers; I can feel the juice dripping past them as they continue to pump inside me. Her other hand squeezes my Tonkscock hard enough to bruise as she pulls even harder along the shaft of my clit. She squeezes the head between two knuckles and uses her thumb to keep stimulating me, keep my orgasm coming, and coming, and coming...

When she finally lets up, she asks me what I want, and I know she wants the desire that is my own, that is the impulse of _want_ and _need_. And so I answer.

"I would like that fruit, please, Fleur. And cheese? And some more water, that would be capital."

Her laugh is like bells again. "Anything else, Miss Newmphadora?"

"Oh, not much, only I'd like to make you feel as good as you've done me. So, I'd like you to fuck my face, or you could ride my Tonkscock, or beat me some more while I service you somehow. Tie me up more, unbind me... I want most of all to serve you until you come, Mistress."

She studies me, then laughs again. "But of course, then. It seems that you can speak your mind in here, now. Excellent. You are coming out from the hiding body."

And I know that she's right, and that she has helped me in this. I am being formed in new ways, but Fleur is not like Degas shaping his wax into figures, and I the unhappy _Petite Danseuse_ my dad once brought me to see. No, she is more like Michelangelo, chipping away at marble, seeking the Nymphadora Tonks who strains toward freedom.


End file.
